


It's Hard To Bury This Hatchet When It's In My Back

by fjordfocus



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angels, Demons, Fallen Angels, FallenAngel!Clayton, M/M, Mirabella (Background), Post-Canon, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), the last 30ish minutes of ep 4 Did Not Happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-25 01:50:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21348289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fjordfocus/pseuds/fjordfocus
Summary: Once the undead in Deadwood were dealt with, the Deadwood Five found themselves to be the resident authority on all things weird in the area. After all, once you've taken care of the undead, everything else is a walk in the park, right?Wrong.They've only had a week of rest, and once again they're being called out into another town in the middle of nowhere to deal with whatever nonsense is going on there. Thrown into a dangerous web of lies and half-truths, they don't realize what they've gotten themselves into until there's no escaping it. You can run from your past, but eventually those demons will catch up to you no matter how well you hide.Sometimes literally. After all, God don't play cards, but the Devil sure as hell does.A fiddle of gold against your soul...Let's play a game.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 17
Kudos: 88





	1. A Touch Of Divinity

**Author's Note:**

> oh boyo we're all going to hell for this, huh?

_Imagine, if you will, a moment of quiet. Of peace. Of silence. Of a calm before the storm._

_Just a degree of separation between you and the pain you know you'll feel inside your lungs if you take a breath, the icy heat of the burning in your veins worming its way into your heart._

_You weren't built to withstand a hurricane, there's only so much you can take before the walls cave in._

_In the eye of a hurricane there is quiet._

_Peace._

_Silence._

_It hurts. And it burns. And you want to mourn the loss, but it's not yours to grieve. Was never yours. Not like that._

_A string of "what ifs" and half-formed possibilities, the pain and sorrow of what could've been, biting at your heels._

_Maybe it'll fade away like smoke from the barrel of that gun you're looking down, just delay that inhale a bit longer._

_Exhale._

_Exhale._

_Exhale._

_Out until your lungs burn with something other than the pain you knew you'd feel upon taking in air once more, the winds circling around you._

_Choking on smoke and flower petals in the midst of a hurricane._

_How poetic._

\---

It was meant to be a threat. Logically, Clayton knew that.

The cool edge of the knife pressed against his throat reflected the moonlight onto Mason's face, and for a moment all he could think of was how attractive the man was, all danger and sharp edges like the blade he wielded. The last time he'd been threatened in such a fashion, the sword had been ablaze. The Reverend needed to step up his game.

Clayton smirked up at Mason, steel blue eyes daring him to do more.

"Don't threaten me with a good time, Reverend," he chided. At the very least follow through.

Mason backed off at that, muttering something under his breath in that deep baritone voice of his that could make men and women and everything in between swoon.

"Please do share with the class," Clayton goaded. Maybe he was pushing his luck.

Well, he was nothing if not a little shit.

"I said you're trying my patience," Mason said, glaring daggers at him. "Is this-" Here he gestured to the surrounding area, to the town they'd come from. "Is _everything_ a joke to you?"

"I ain't laughing," Clayton replied simply. "This whole... undead business? Not my cup of tea. Not funny, neither. The fact that you dragged me out here in the dead of night and held a knife to my throat? Now that's something I might chuckle at. What were you expecting to do? Torture my past outta me? I'm not the only one keeping secrets. Rather hypocritical of you."

There was a beat of silence as the two stared each other down, an air of tension crackling between them.

"Perhaps I was being a bit… unorthodox in my methods," Mason said trepidatiously, running a hand through dark hair. "But in my experience, men of your ilk tend to listen only to violence."

_I can't exactly say he's wrong._

"Maybe next time point that thing elsewhere," Clayton advised, and his eyes absolutely did not linger on the blade still in the Reverend's grasp for a moment, and his mind definitely did not conjure images of what the man could do with said knife, or what he'd much rather have in that hand. "Not everyone of my _ilk_, as you say, is quite as forgiving." _Or gay._ "Now say your piece so I can go the fuck back to sleep." _Not that I will right away, but it's the thought that counts, right?_

A moment passed as Mason gathered his thoughts, sheathing the knife once more - _Damn shame._ \- and attempting to find the right words.

"Miriam told me about you pocketing those wanted posters, Sharpe," he said eventually. "And I just wanted your assurance, for what little it may be worth in a town like this, that whatever you've done isn't gonna come back to bite us in the ass. I can't speak for the others, but… I like you, and it'd be a damn shame for shit from your past to get in the way of this… tentative friendship we've all built up."

Clayton just watched Mason for a moment, enjoying seeing the man squirm the longer the silence dragged on, only broken by the sounds of the night.

"Perhaps it's not me you should be worrying about," he said finally, a dark hint to his tone. "Seems like the good ol' Reverend himself ain't quite the man he says he is. So tell me, Mason - do_ I_ have to worry about _you_?"

Mason stiffened at the words, eyes widening in surprise - and was that fear? - for just a moment before narrowing, once more adopting that threatening stance.

"You'd best not go telling anyone what you know," he said, voice low, tone commanding in a way that made Clayton shiver.

"Or what?" Clayton fired back, that smirk playing on his lips once more.

The distance between them shrank as Mason approached. Clayton stood his ground, a defiant fire in his eyes.

"Or I'll make you wish you'd never come to Deadwood," was the growled response. Clayton, normally a rather confident, dominant man, was finding it hard to maintain eye contact with the self-proclaimed Reverend, especially with the larger man so close to him that he could practically feel the warmth radiating off his body. Steel blue eyes flicked down to Mason's lips for just a second before he managed to drag his gaze away.

"I'd like to see you try."

Clayton's back made a sharp impact with the tree once again as Mason pressed him against it, a hand on his throat - not quite what he wanted, but he'd take it, he could work with that - and he chuckled even as fingers dug into his flesh.

"C'mon big guy," Clayton teased, pressing a hand to the Reverend's chest and gripping onto his shirt, yanking him closer. "You're gonna have to do better than that."

Clayton felt more than heard the growl reverberate through the Reverend's chest, and the hand that was around his neck shifted to cup the back of his head as Mason's lips crashed into his own with bruising intensity. 

_ Funny, this definitely doesn't make me wish I'd never come here, _ he mused as Mason's fingers wove into his hair, pulling at his scalp.

It felt like an eternity and also far too short of a time before Mason broke away, stepping back, leaving Clayton dizzy and wanting more.

They stood like that for a long while, breathing labored, trying to regain their composure and asking themselves what the actual _fuck_ just happened.

Mason was the one to break the silence. "Let's keep this between you and me," he said, hesitant, seeming so unsure of himself now. That cautious facade was back in place.

"That was the idea," Clayton replied, a slight flush still staining his cheeks. "Forgettin' all about it was the idea, actually."

Mason nodded. The movement sharp and awkward.

"Good."

They stood there a moment longer before Mason strode off, walking with the familiar false confidence of someone who had no fuckin' idea what he'd just done but had to pretend like he did.

Clayton slowly slid down, planting his ass firmly on the ground and holding his head in his hands. He let out a long sigh.

If falling from grace hadn't already put him on the road to hell, he was pretty sure that the added insult to the Big Man Upstairs of making out with a holy man just put him in the express lane.

He groaned and tilted his head back, rubbing the back of his neck. His hand brushed against where Mason's fingers had dug into his neck, and he winced.

Oh, there were definitely bruises. Fuck.

He forced himself to his feet, doing his best to ignore the shakiness of his legs, and started back toward his room in town.

\---

Clayton woke up early the next morning in a cold sweat, shooting up from the bed clutching at his throat and gasping for air.

It took a minute for his heart rate to slow, the remnants of his nightmare fading to smoke in the muted morning light that filtered through his bedroom window.

He swung his legs over and rubbed at his eyes before pushing himself to his feet and getting dressed. He paused as he looked in the mirror when he put on his hat, catching a glimpse of very distinctly fingerprint-like blue-purple spots on his neck.

_Well that's gonna be hard to hide._

He popped his collar and studied himself in the mirror a moment.

He looked stupid as hell.

A sigh escaped him and he flattened the collar again, shaking his head. His mind wandered back to the events of the day before - specifically the _night_ before - and he had to force those images down, hoping to be rid of the heat crawling up his neck.

_Dumbass._

He headed down the stairs to meet up with the other four - pointedly ignoring Mason, whose dark gaze he could feel burning into his skin - and received a few looks from them.

"What happened to your neck, Mister Sharp? Are you alright?" Miriam was the one to ask the question on everyone's minds.

"Nothin' for you to worry yourself over," Clayton replied coolly, flashing a smile that was somehow both reassuring and warning. "Now, we got everything we need?"

It had been about a week since they'd taken care of all the undead in Deadwood, and the group had become sort of the… unofficial mercenaries in regards to the more unnatural happenings that occurred in Deadwood and surrounding towns. Which was perfectly fine by Clayton - _being_ one of those unnatural things, he was the best to deal with them.

He casually rolled his shoulders, feeling the pressure of the scar tissue on his shoulder blades where his wings once were. It was grounding, really. Reminded him of all that he'd been through so far, that it wasn't a waste.

"I do believe we're good to head out." At Aloysius' words, they mounted their horses - the horseless ones had acquired new steeds after that incident in the canyon - and set off.

The ride was relatively quiet for him, Clayton dropping to ride at the back as he always did, keeping an eye and an ear out for anything that may prove to be a problem on the road. Arabella and Aloysius spearheaded the charge, with Mason and Miriam in the middle.

Being on his own in the back gave his mind the opportunity to wander. Normally that wasn't such a bad thing - he didn't mind wrestling with his inner demons - but as his thoughts kept drifting back to a certain Reverend, he quickly determined that this was going to be a problem.

They had never really gotten along. Sure, they were friendly enough toward each other, and maybe Clayton felt some kind of strange obligation to protect the man, but after his comment about God being as feral as the creatures he created…

Well, he should've seen the dislike and tension coming, really. But he wasn't exactly used to traveling with religious folk. In fact he made it a point to not do that. For obvious fallen-angel-associated reasons.

He sighed and sank deeper into the saddle, deflating. He hadn't wanted this. Hadn't wanted to deal with those damned snakes, or the undead, or whatever the fuck they were riding toward now. He'd wanted to lay low, stay hidden lest his rather fucked up past come back to bite him in the ass.

And yet here he was, traipsing through the Gold Country wilderness with a quartet of dumbasses who were apparently insistent on using their damn _magic_ and continuously betting their souls against a being that might as well be the fuckin' _Devil_ for all they knew.

That was why Clayton himself hadn't taken the bait. He didn't need to out himself, to give away his location to whatever might be behind the curtain. Cause he was pretty damn sure that was no God. Lucifer was the one who played cards, who gambled for souls, and he didn't want to find himself caught in that spider's web.

Cold steel blue eyes landed on each of his companions in turn.

_Damn fools, the lot of 'em._

He knew things were fucked when he of all people was the sensible one.

As the sun grew lower on the horizon, the darkness creeping up on them, shadows lengthening into the kind of twisted, nightmarish creatures that played on the edges of one's vision, the group stopped to set up camp for the night.

"Y'all go ahead and get some rest," Clayton said as he tied his horse to one of the nearby trees, not bothering to look up from his task. "I'll keep watch."

There were some murmurings behind him that he tuned out, nearly jumping out of his skin when a gentle hand landed on his shoulder.

He looked over, wide eyes meeting Miriam's. "Mister Sharpe," she began, voice low. "It's quite obvious that somethin's on your mind, dear. If you need someone to talk to…"

"Thank you, Miriam, but no," he replied, relaxing somewhat. His tone was more gentle than it had been that morning. "These are my own demons, I'll not burden someone else with them."

"It's not a burden you're required to carry alone," she responded evenly. There was a beat of silence as Clayton digested her words, and she removed her hand. He found himself stupidly wishing for that bit of contact to return as soon as it left. "The offer still stands for whenever you want to share the weight."

Clayton tipped his hat to her in thanks, and turned to resume dealing with his horse. He was taking far longer than was necessary, but he needed something to do with his hands.

Eventually, he wandered his way over to the small campfire, sitting down on a log someone had rolled over to it. Probably Mason, it seemed like something someone with that kind of strength could do easily. If the man could leave bruises on not-quite-mortal flesh…

His hand reached up, unbidden, to run a feather-light touch over the offending marks, and a shiver ran through him. He yanked his hand away, folded it with the other on his lap, and just stared into the fire for a while. The heat brought with it comfort, the flames shining on him with warmth, unlike the cold, harsh indifference of the divine light he had recently found himself hidden from.

Movement to his side caught his attention, and his gaze peeled away from the tongues of fire to land on the Reverend, who plopped down on the log beside him.

The silence stretched between them for what felt like an eternity, Mason staring into the flames as Clayton had been, and Clayton watching Mason for some clue as to why the man had joined him and wasn't sleeping like the others.

"I wanted to apologize," Mason said eventually. "For the way I acted before. It was…" He paused, searching for the right words. "It was unwarranted. You have done nothing to raise any kind of suspicion among the group, and quite frankly without you here, I don't see how we could've gotten through that business in Deadwood unscathed."

Clayton hummed quietly in acknowledgement of the Reverend's words, turning his attention back to the flickering light.

"It wasn't unwarranted," he replied evenly. "You don't know me, and I don't know you lot. Even a bad man can do good things, just as a good man can be wicked. I don't quite know which category I myself fall under - I've done some bad things, things that there ain't no atonin' for. I don't know if what I've done will put you in danger, but I do know that I'll fight tooth and nail to keep that from happenin'. Is that a good enough answer for you, Reverend?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Clayton saw Mason nod.

A beat, then, "Nothing's beyond atoning for," Mason said, and Clayton barked out a quiet, humorless laugh.

"Trust me, Mason," he muttered. "Your God wants nothing to do with someone like me."

Mason opened his mouth to speak, but must've thought better of it as he snapped his mouth shut, letting the quiet wash over them once more.

"Get some rest," Clayton said, glancing over at him. "I'll wake you and Aloysius when it's time for your watch."

Mason sighed, nodding, and stood. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then Clayton felt a hand on his shoulder - firm, but gentle. "For what it's worth, Sharpe," he murmured. "I think you're a good man - just one who's struggling to see it."

A brief pause, a loss of contact.

"Goodnight, Mister Sharpe."

A stretch of silence, lasting until Mason settled back onto his bedroll.

And quiet words, half-whispered, swallowed up by the sounds of the night, "Goodnight, Reverend."


	2. The Hunters, The Hunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter already?  
thank you to the kind souls in discord who yelled at me to write when i needed some motivation  
ily ❤
> 
> enjoy 😈

"Well ain't that a sonuvabitch."

Clayton turned his attention to the woman who had spoken, and instantly bristled. She had a familiar aura to her, eyes blue as the sky, hair like woven gold tied back into a messy ponytail, and unlike the other women he'd come across in this and other towns, she wore pants and a button-down shirt and a hat much like his own.

They'd been in the town for only a few hours now, asking questions, and Clayton currently sat at a table in the bar, waiting for Miriam to finish weaseling information from the barkeep.

This woman had waltzed in like she owned the place, sun-kissed skin faintly aglow with the all-too-familiar light of the divine.

And she'd immediately fixed her gaze on _ him. _

"I wasn't expectin' to see you 'round here," she mused, sauntering over and dropping into the seat opposite his own, leaning back in the wooden chair and crossing her arms. "Been a while."

"I think you've got me mixed up with someone else, ma'am," he said, a bite of forced politeness in his tone.

"No, I don't believe I do," she fired back confidently, leaning closer and planting her arms firmly on the table.

"Keep your fuckin' voice down," Clayton hissed, all attempts at deceit vanishing, venom in his words now, a flash of anger in his eyes. "What the _ fuck _ are you doing here, Kalaziel?"

The woman, Kalaziel, seemed to recoil slightly at the tone.

"Dealing with whatever mess your precious mortals made this time," she snapped, though she'd listened to him and lowered her voice. "There were _ demons _ taking the form of undead in the next town over, Ga-"

"_ Clayton, _ " he interrupted, annoyance building. "I go by Clayton here. And _ yes _ , I _ know _ . You wanna know how? Because _ I'm _the one that got rid of them. Even after Falling, I'm still better at this fuckin' job than you are."

Kalaziel glared at him. "I could sound the alarm right now, you know," she said, the threat coming across so casually that it took him a moment to really process what had just come out of her mouth. "Set loose the wrath of heaven - or hell, pick your poison - upon you, like hounds biting at your heels."

"But you won't," Clayton shot back, a corner of his lips quirking up in a smirk. "Because like it or not, you know there's some weird shit going down. And you know that out of the _ entire _ heavenly host, I'm still the best at dealing with it."

He could see the muscles near her temples moving as she clenched her jaw, and he knew he'd hit the nail on the head with that assumption. _ That false confidence of yours really has come in handy lately, huh? _

"The second your usefulness wears out-"

"You'll do nothing, because if your superiors find out that you had knowledge of the location of a Fallen and did nothing, you'll be getting in quite a bit of trouble, won't you, Kala?" The nickname came from him unbidden, and for a moment it felt all too much like their conversations in Heaven.

A mere few seconds went by before she suddenly stood up, chair scraping harshly against the floor. "Fuck you," she snarled, then turned on a dime and stalked over to the bar.

He watched her go. _ Not a very angelic reaction there, Kalaziel. _

"You certainly have a way with the ladies, Mister Sharpe."

Miriam's voice voice was comforting after that interaction, and he found himself relaxing as she sat down beside him.

"Never been all that interested in them anyhow," he muttered, taking in a deep breath, tearing his eyes away from Kalaziel and rubbing at them. He eventually fixed his gaze on Miriam, ignoring the probing look she was sending his way. "You find anything?"

"Apparently we're not the only one who's had an empty church," she said simply. "Though ours ain't so empty anymore. Somethin' chased out the Reverend here around the same time Deadwood had that snake problem. Might be worth lookin' into?"

Clayton nodded, pushing his chair back and standing, pounding the shot of whiskey that had been sitting in front of him practically since he'd entered the building.

"Well, let's get on over there, then," he said, and motioned to the exit. "Ladies first."

Miriam flashed him a smile and headed for the door, and he chanced a look back toward Kalaziel. Their eyes met, unblinking, and true to form, she was the first to crumble.

She'd never been one to stand against an Archangel for long - even one who'd Fallen.

He tipped his hat to her, an almost mocking gesture, and turned to step through the door after Miriam.

He walked outside and promptly ran into the Reverend.

_ Why the fuck is this man built like a brick wall? _

He stumbled back, and a strong hand wrapped around his upper arm, holding him in place.

_ And why is he so strong Jesus _ ** _Christ_ ** _ I'm gay- _

"Sorry," Mason apologized, his warm, concerned voice cutting through Clayton's internal monologue. He watched as deep brown eyes flicked down to the bruises on his neck before they met his own blue ones. "You alright?"

Clayton cleared his throat. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said, you know, like a liar. "Just wasn't expecting you to be right there."

They stood like that, Mason's hand circled around Clayton's arm - and he definitely wasn't leaning into the touch, no sir - eyes locked, until someone outside of the bubble cleared their throat, breaking the spell, and they parted, both looking away like shy schoolchildren. Clayton rubbed the back of his neck.

Oh he was _ so _ fucked.

A jab to his side caused him to jump, tensing, a hand flying to one of his pistols as he looked over. He relaxed when he saw Aloysius.

"You and the Reverend seem to be gettin' pretty cozy," he mused. "Anything you wanna get off your chest, Sharpe?"

Clayton shot him a glare then glanced around for witnesses. Mason and the women had already started walking, heading for the abandoned church at the edge of town.

"Both you and Miriam are too observant for your own good, Mister Fogg," he muttered, satisfied that no one he cared about was within earshot. "Nothing's going on that I wanna talk about."

Aloysius smirked, and for a moment Clayton considered wiping that smug look from his face.

"Well if that changes, do let me know."

"Sure." _ Not a chance in hell. _

The church, once they made their way over to it, was empty as expected. Clayton hovered at the entrance, hesitant to go in, scanning what he could see from that vantage point. He was always paranoid about crossing onto hallowed ground, as if God would be able to sense him and smite him where he stood, or the slight burning in his chest would spread into full-on combustion. He wasn't affected as strongly as demons were, but being Fallen he got a bit of a hint of what was in store for him the more he disobeyed the will of his Creator.

He slowly entered the building, and that familiar burn and sense of dread took hold, rooting itself into his being.

"Find anything unusual?" he questioned.

"No oil coming up through the floorboards, if that's what you're talking about," Arabella replied from deeper inside. "Just looks like a regular church to me."

Clayton frowned, letting his gaze sweep over the area. Something felt… off… but he couldn't quite place what.

He was sure it would come to him eventually.

Hopefully.

He let himself get lost for a moment. Memories from long ago tickled at the back of his mind, but he forced them back. Shoved them back into a corner.

He hadn't thought about the Fall in a very long time, and he wasn't about to start now.

He shook himself and started giving the building a more thorough once-over.

"Uh, I think- I think I found something?"

Mason's voice filtered over to Clayton and the others, and they joined him in a small room in the back of the church.

Clayton immediately recognized the symbols on the floor, the writing in an all-too-familiar language, and the barely-there crack in the outer containment circle, and his stomach dropped. As the others moved closer, he backed away, running the words over in his mind.

Well. That would certainly explain that feeling of _off-ness._

_ We invoke your name, _ ** _Abbadon_ ** _ , destroyer of the unworthy, bringer of death, give us guidance on our path, to do what must be done. _

_ We summon you, _ ** _Wormwood_ ** _ , the plaguebringer, to cleanse this world of filth. _

** _Procel_ ** _ , reveal to us the hidden knowledge we must acquire to cast off the shackles of these mortal bodies, that we may live free of fear and death. _

** _Bernael_ ** _ , shroud us in your darkness, that we may not be discovered by prying eyes. _

** _Gadreel_ ** _ , give unto us your strength and conniving wit, that we may be messengers and deliver others unto the world of our creation. _

_ O Fallen, we call to you now to ask of you your favor, and tether you here that we may receive blessings immeasurable. _

He swallowed hard, eyes darting between the symbols and the writing and the half-burned candles.

Someone had been summoning fallen angels - and not the kind like him, who chose to Fall. The ones who were cast out. The ones who were bitter, and evil, and would like nothing more than to wreak havoc in the world and destroy the playthings of the Creator.

_ Oh _ ** _fuck_ ** _ me- _

"Clayton?"

His head snapped up at the sound of Arabella's tentative voice, and realized the others were looking at him with varying degrees of concern.

"What was that you were saying? It didn't sound…"

"It didn't sound like any language we know," Aloysius finished for her. "You care to explain?"

Clayton could feel the heat crawling its way up onto his cheeks. "It's, uh-" he stammered, then cleared his throat to try again, gesturing to the symbols on the ground. "It's Latin."

_ Nailed it. _

Mason's eyes narrowed slightly, and though he didn't say anything Clayton knew he could see right through the lie.

_ That _was why he didn't fucking travel with the religious folk.

He coughed into his hand. “It’s a summoning circle,” he continued.

“And what exactly were they summoning?” Arabella asked, clearly intrigued by the thought of magic. As if she hadn’t learned that all the occult shit they’d dealt with was a bad thing.

“Fallen angels,” Clayton replied after a moment of hesitation.

“So demons?”

“Not necessarily. Demons and fallen angels are… different, to an extent. There’s some overlap. But not all fallen angels are demons, and not all demons are fallen angels. These particular ones just happen to belong in both categories.”

There was a pregnant pause before Mason spoke, having been rather quiet up until that point. “You seem to know quite a bit about these creatures, Mister Sharpe,” he said slowly, as if testing the waters, seeing how much he could push. “Where did you learn this? It’s certainly not common knowledge.”

_ Fuck. _

“My family was, uh. They were the religious type,” Clayton replied, the lie falling fat to his own ears. He could only hope they took it as him not wanting to give up information about his past rather than them thinking he might be hiding something.

It seemed to be enough for them, at least for now, though Mason didn’t seem to be entirely convinced. _ Damn him. _

“So what exactly are we dealing with here? Did this… summoning circle even do what it was intended to do?” Miriam asked, looking back toward the object in question. Clayton moved a bit closer, crouching down to point out the hairline fracture in the most important line.

“Well, for starters, this right here is a containment circle. It looks as if it was breached, which means that if the summoning was successful, whatever they brought here was able to escape,” he explained. He pointed toward one of the name sigils. “This one was to summon Abbadon, a fallen angel of death and destruction.”

He paused, pointing toward each of the others in turn. “Wormwood, the plaguebringer. Though not always the normal kind of plagues. Procel, fallen angel of the occult and hidden secrets. You may be familiar with that one, Arabella,” he observed, though there was no malice in his words. “Bernael, fallen angel of darkness and misdeeds. And finally, Gadreel.”

A finger traced the lines of the sigil, and an emotion he couldn’t pinpoint bubbled up in his chest, casting a shadow over the prickles of dread that had settled in him the moment he set foot in the church. “Counterpart to the Archangel Gabriel. A messenger. Strong, willful, cunning. The one who allowed Lucifer into the Garden. Fallen angel of betrayal.”

There was silence for a long moment as the others digested his words, and finally was broken by Aloysius. “You said these plagues aren’t always normal, right?” he questioned. “Like a fuck ton of demonic snakes and an army of the undead?”

Clayton froze, processing the words. That… did make an unfortunate amount of sense. But if that were the case…

Then they were dealing with the work of fallen angels. And the Dealer might be even worse than he initially thought. Because when there was one, or two, or five, so it seemed, they were always acting under the direction of a higher authority. And the only thing higher on the food chain than a fallen angel was a worse fallen angel.

_ Please, just don’t let it be him. Anyone else I can deal with, but I’ll not destroy my own brother. I’ll not become Michael. _

“If that’s the case, then what happened in Deadwood might not be an isolated incident,” Clayton muttered, heaving himself to his feet. “Which means that unless we put a stop to this, we’re gonna have a lot more shit on our plate.”

“_ Can _ we even stop it, is the question,” Aloysius asked. “Now I’m all for rooting out and striking down evil. That’s… that’s what we _ do _ now, as odd as that is to say. But are we really cut out for this? I mean, we’re not talking about a few outlaws rising from their graves. This is a whole-ass _ angel _ we’re talking about.”

“Fallen angel,” Arabella clarified. “The fallen part is important, I think.”

“What say you, Reverend? You’ve been awful quiet during this,” Miriam observed, turning to Mason. He looked pensive, as if contemplating the best course of action.

“I think,” he began, voice surprisingly confident for someone who’d just been told about the existence and power of fallen angels. “That if these… _ things _ have been released into the world, it’s our duty to snuff them out. Through the power of our Lord, all things are possible, and we have quite obviously been blessed with some… rather _ extraordinary _ gifts. Perhaps this is their purpose- _ our _ purpose.”

A beat. “I’ve never been one to bend to the will of fate or destiny,” Arabella muttered. “Quite frankly, I’m not even sure such a thing exists. But I’ll admit that I was drawn to all of you, in a way that I’ve never experienced before. Maybe the Reverend is right, maybe he’s not, but… I agree, at least, that we have to do something. I won’t just stand idly by and watch other people suffer. Mister Sharpe?”

“I think we’re all fuckin idiots,” he said plainly. He was surprised at how he was able to keep the worry and also mild excitement out of his voice. “But we get shit done. And we already have some degree of experience with this shit, minimal as it may be.”

Arabella nodded and looked expectantly at Aloysius.

He sighed and threw his hands up in defeat. “We’re gonna get ourselves killed, but what the hell, why not.”

Clayton looked over at the others, gaze landing on them each in turn, and a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, a mischievous, almost predatory thing.

It had been a long time since he’d had worthy prey. Longer, still, since he had people at his side. It was no divine hunting party sent out to smite down the wicked. Even so, it was exhilarating, but also terrifying. One wrong move, and his fr- _ companions _ could be torn to shreds. Fallen angels didn't play around, especially the five that had supposedly been summoned. He supposed he would just have to make sure that the others didn’t get in the way - for that, he’d need to put himself in the line of fire, with a very limited power supply.

Michael always said he was too self-sacrificing for his own good.

“So,” he said casually, his mind made up, as if he were about to ask what they wanted for lunch rather than deciding the fate of the world. “Let’s go hunt us a fallen angel.”

—

_ Smoky tendrils drifted lazily toward a darkened sky, a seeming void overhead, not even the smallest pinpricks of starlight dotting the blackened horizon. But it wasn’t night. Or day. Time had lost its meaning long ago, long before the crust of the Earth formed, before creation bloomed and light came from the darkness. _

_ Darkness. Darkness was always there, inky, flowing like water or blood or the depths of the soul, pulling, twisting, blinding, _ ** _tearing_ ** _ . From it no light can come. Not without a source. And any source of light would inevitably run out, expend itself, _ ** _extinguish_ ** _ . It was only a matter of time. A waiting game. _

_ It was nothing if not patient, the cold disinterest of the void. Eternity has no meaning for that which time does not exist. _

_ A creature lifted its head jerkily, the movement inhuman despite the being’s outward appearance, and took in a long, deep breath, catching the scent of something. Something that it could destroy, devour, _ ** _consume_ ** _ . _

_ A slow smile spread, dry, cracked lips pulling back to reveal rows upon rows of sharp, jagged teeth, eyes like hot coals burning beneath half-closed lids, the smoke originating from the ember-filled sockets. _

_ The hunter will become the hunted, and its children will feast on the flesh of the unworthy. _

_ So it was proclaimed, so shall it be. _


	3. A Matter Of Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters in one day, wowza  
don't expect this all the time though, i just happen to have a day off lmao

Clayton had figured that it was only a matter of time before the Reverend descended upon him like a flock of vultures descended on a fresh corpse, but he hadn’t expected it to be so soon. The group had gotten rooms in the hotel for the night, and he’d only just settled into his own room when there was a knock at the door.

He picked up one of his pistols and opened the door a crack, pointing the barrel of the gun out, and relaxed when he confirmed that it was just Mason, opening the door wider. “Fancy seeing you here, Reverend,” he said as cheerfully as he could muster despite knowing that he was in for a lot of questions from a rather bright man. _ Why couldn’t he just be as dumb as I thought he was originally? _ It hadn’t taken him long to figure out that the innocence and naivety was just a trick - and a rather good one, at that. Had him fooled for a couple days.

He placed the gun down onto the nightstand, looking over expectantly at Mason as the man closed the door.

“You sure seem to know a lot for someone who isn’t a religious man, Sharpe,” Mason started, leaning his back against the closed door, effectively barricading them into the room, crossing muscular arms over a wide chest.

Clayton was altogether too attracted to the man to look directly at him for very long. It was like staring into the sun - extremely dangerous. He sighed, looking away, slowly and deliberately taking his gloves off, revealing scarred hands. Light radiant burn scars on his palms due to the usage of what little angelic power he had left, a few thin scars encircling some of his fingers like rings from where he’d had them cut off while being tortured and had regrown them.

“Told ya, Reverend,” he responded, voice low, deliberate, almost threatening - almost. “Family was the religious type. Learned a lot from them.”

“I’m only curious,” Mason said, trying to play it off. “I haven’t met any with the level of knowledge about these creatures that you have.”

Clayton hummed in acknowledgement of the words. “My family wasn’t the normal sort.”

“You keep saying _ was _. What happened to them?”

Clayton stiffened and tossed him a look. He hadn’t expected the man to be so… blunt. Forward about everything.

“Who did you kill?” Clayton asked suddenly, turning the focus of the conversation away from himself. “Swearengen, he said we’re all killers. So tell me, who did you kill?”

The subtle creak of floorboards and the gentle shifting of the hotel was all that cut through the silence that stretched between them. Clayton couldn’t help feeling that it was the calm before the proverbial storm.

Finally, “My sister.” The response was barely a whisper, more just a quiet exhale. “Something… something _ changed _ in her. She…” He seemed to choke on the words, and he looked down at the floor, crumbling, all his confidence fading to dust. “She was the first. She… she _ slaughtered _ our parents, gutted them like pigs. That was my first experience with demons.”

Something clicked in Clayton’s mind, a slight pressure that directed him toward a long-forgotten memory, shortly before he’d Fallen. Belial had taken the form of a girl and had been wreaking havoc on a small town. Supposedly he’d been locked away by a young man with the help of the angel Karael - an angel whom Clayton himself had trained as a Hunter.

“Fallen angel,” Clayton murmured. “Belial. I heard about that, years ago.”

Mason looked surprised. “How-”  
  
“So you’ve worked with angels, and that’s why you believe so strongly in a God?” Clayton interrupted. “You think you were _ chosen _ for some kind of bullshit higher purpose? Trust me, Mason, you weren’t chosen - you were just in the wrong place at the wrong goddamn time.”

“What the hell is your problem, Sharpe?”

“Excuse me?”

“You come into town like a fuckin’ tornado, stirring up trouble wherever you go. You act like it’s your damn job - no, your fuckin’ _ right _ \- to be an insensitive piece of shit, all the while hiding everything about yourself so that no one could treat you the same way that you treat others or, _ God forbid _ , let someone try to fuckin’ help you,” Mason snapped, closing in on him. “You deflect, and you bullshit, and you _ insult _ your way out of every conversation that might just _ maybe _ get you to open up for once in your goddamn life. We’ve known each other for a week and the only thing I know about you is your name and that you know far more about all this weird shit than you’ve let on. You’re quiet, and bitter, and hostile and I _ so badly _ want to believe that you’re a good person beneath all the deception, but you don’t even make conversation or that belief easy to maintain.”

He stopped mere inches from Clayton, staring him down.

“So I’ll ask you again, _ Mister Sharpe _ ,” he said, voice deathly quiet, venom in his words, possessing such a casually threatening tone that Clayton hadn’t thought him capable of, and that definitely was not just a _ little _ bit hot. “What the _ fuck _ is your problem?”

Clayton glared up at him, anger and defiance in his eyes. _ I don’t have a fuckin problem, _ he wanted to shout. _ And even if I did, it’s none of your goddamn business. _

But he didn’t. He relented, took a step back, and sat down on the edge of the bed, staring off into the distance, dragging his hands over his face, feeling the mountains and valleys of the scars against his skin. “This,” he said finally, gesturing wildly at the room around them. “I’m not fucking cut out for this life, Mason. For… being around _ people _ . I want to go _ home _ and I can’t because I fucked up and it’s not something I can just apologize for. There’s no forgiving what I did.” _ I’m a Hunter and it’s all I know and I don’t fucking know how to interact with people like a normal human being because I’m not one and- _

Physical contact brought him out of his reverie, and he looked down in surprise to find Mason’s hands on his own, the other man crouching in front of him, concern plain on his features.

“Nothing is unforgivable,” Mason said softly, and Clayton scoffed, yanking his hands free of the Reverend’s hold.

Hot tears pricked at his eyes and he wiped at them furiously with scarred palms. “You don’t fucking understand,” he grumbled.

“Clayton,” That voice again, soft and caring and feeling for all the world like something he couldn’t have. “Please. I want to understand. I want to _ help _.”

He shook his head. “You can’t,” he muttered. “I- I can’t do this, I-” _ I’m a fallen angel. The same thing that killed your parents, that took over your sister, that’s being summoned by idiots who don’t know what kind of power they’re messing with. _

A feather-light touch on his knee led him to realize distantly that he was shaking, his own arms wrapped around his stomach protectively.

“Do you want me to l-”

“Stay,” Clayton said immediately, a hand shooting out to circle around Mason’s wrist. “Please.”

The Reverend nodded and stood up carefully, slowly guiding Clayton to lie down on the bed, never removing contact, and laid down on the bed beside him, his face buried in Mason’s chest. And he just… let the world melt away.

—-

Clayton awoke slowly, a pleasant change to his normal abrupt entry into consciousness. There was a comforting pressure circling around his waist, a solid form at his back that rose and fell in time with his own breaths.

And then the events of the night before came crashing back.

He carefully, as quickly as he could manage without waking Mason up, disentangled himself from the strong arms that held him, and stood, hurriedly moving away from the bed. He took a moment to give himself a once-over, noting the darkened marks just at the back of his jawline and on his scarred palms that looked oddly like bruises. He’d almost lost control of himself last night, the Grace within him clawing at his skin in an attempt to escape. Undoing the top few buttons of his shirt, he noted that there was the same kind of “bruising” along his sternum as well. Pulling at his shirt and turning around, it was present along his spine and on his shoulder blades, fanning out from the scars where his wings once were.

_ Things could have gone… very poorly. _

Clayton glanced back toward the bed, toward the sleeping man atop it, and cursed quietly, running a hand through his hair, and buttoned his shirt back up. By the light filtering in through the window, it was barely early morning.

He sighed and grabbed a pen and some kind of scrap of paper that was lying on the nightstand and wrote a quick little note.

_ Reverend, _

_ I apologize for my behaviour last night, it was _

He stopped, trying to think of the right word. Unprofessional? No… ah-

_ improper. I’ve gone out to reflect on what you said, and what happened, so if I am still gone by the time you rise please do not be alarmed. _

_C. Sharpe_

He reread the note. It was painfully formal, in an elegant, flowing script that didn’t seem like it could possibly be the handwriting of such a hardened man as himself. But it was good enough. He left it on the nightstand where he’d placed one of his pistols the night before.

He put on his boots, grabbed his hat and duster, and strapped his guns to his sides before darting out the door, closing it as quietly as he could.

Clayton made his way silently down the stairs and outside into the crisp mid-sunrise air. He took in a deep breath and started to walk. It didn’t matter where - just _ away _ would suffice.

As he walked, heading for the outskirts of town, he let his mind wander. How could he even _ begin _ to tell someone what he’d done? What he’d been through? What he even _ was _?

God had commanded him - all the angels - to love humanity as they loved Him, to care for them as He had cared for them. Lucifer and a number of others had refused, been cast out for disobeying the Father. Clayton… _ Gabriel _… had not been one of them. He had done his duty in protecting them, guiding them, loving them. In the end… Michael had been right. Self-sacrifice would always be what did him in. He had protected Gadreel for as long as he could. They’d not been cast from the Host with Lucifer. They had been his partner, his counterpart, his soulbound-

_ Fallen angel of betrayal. _

His words from the day before echoed in his mind, and on impulse he turned and cocked a fist back, slamming it into the tree that was beside him, his breathing ragged, throwing his hat off of his head like a child having a tantrum and pressing his forehead against the bark. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, arms hanging limply at his sides. He took in a deep breath and let it out shakily, ignoring the pain blossoming in his knuckles in favor of taking a look around at his surroundings. His feet had carried him far beyond the edge of town, into the dense forest that enveloped it. He sighed and pushed off the tree, walking over to where he’d tossed his had and dusting it off, placing it back onto his head.

There was a certain calm that washed over him in the muted light of the slowly rising sun. The smell of damp earth and the gentle blowing of the breeze, the ca-

Clayton stilled, his stomach turning at the realization: there were no sounds of animals, or insects. The air shaking the leaves had turned almost ominous, the sound like the chattering of demons laughing at his idiocy.

And idiocy it was-

“Gabriel.”

The single word uttered in a familiar sickly-sweet voice caused Clayton to freeze, turning slowly to face the being.

It was almost as if he were looking in a mirror, the image reflected back at him different, yet similar enough to be mocking. There was a strange pull on his heart, as if there were some unseen force connecting them, attempting to drag him closer.

“Gadreel.” It came out as a breath, a curse sent off on the wind, ending up in places unknown. A million questions, a lifetime’s worth of pain behind it.

All Clayton could do was stare.

And as Gadreel shifted, so did their figure, taking on a more lithe, lean form, androgynous in appearance, dark brown hair spilling further down their back and framing their face, honey-golden eyes peering up at him from under long lashes.

A mocking _ sneer _ on their lips.

“So you spend your time with mortals still,” Gadreel observed disdainfully, moving to circle Clayton like a predator circling its prey. “Masquerading as one of them. How many of Father’s precious creation have you killed, hm? Hundreds? Thousands? More? You’re more similar to them than you think.”

Clayton’s eyes followed the Fallen, never letting them leave his sight. He was not so foolish as to believe that Gadreel would leave him be should the opportunity to strike present itself - and so he simply wouldn’t let the opportunity arise.

He said nothing in response to their words, knowing that they were simply trying to get a rise out of him. Toying with him. The cat playing with the mouse.

_ They’re nothing but monsters, _ they had said once upon a time, oh so long ago now. _ They kill each other for greed, for sport. They’re no better than the demons we protect them from. Why not let them all burn? _

Gadreel stalked forward, reaching up to ghost their knuckles along Clayton’s jawline as he looked away, their head cocked slightly to the side, hooded eyes looking up at him, mouth parted slightly. It was almost intimate in a way, despite the feeling of revulsion the touch brought him. And then those lips parted into a menacing fanged smile as clawed fingers grabbed onto his jaw and forced him to look straight at them.

“Cut off from headquarters, eh Gabriel? Poor thing. Given enough time, you’ll come to be one of them. And what will become of you then, hm?” Poison dripped from their words, burning him with every letter. He tried to move his head but they only held tighter, grip like a vice keeping him still as tendrils of corruption flowed through their veins, the darkness visible against their pale flesh, moving up their arm. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.” Clayton could feel it spreading from where their skin made contact with his own, a searing pain burning through him as his weakened Grace tried to fend it off. “You’ll waste away, just like them. Look at you know - the once proud Archangel doesn’t even have enough juice to fight against his soulbound.”

Gadreel let go, shoving Clayton’s face to the side with a sickening crack, enough force behind the action that it would’ve killed any regular mortal, but he knew would just leave his neck sore as if he’d slept on it wrong. As it was, it sent his hat careening away and it took him a moment to recover from the momentary white-hot pain that shot along his spine.

He slowly turned his head back to look at the Fallen as they stepped away, slinking back like a caged animal.

“What, cat got your tongue?” Gadreel prodded, and a smirk played on Clayton’s lips at the sound of frustration in their voice. They scowled, their anger building. “Or do you still believe yourself to be so high and mighty that the likes of me aren’t worthy of you? That’s what it’s always been about, right Gabriel? Worth? Yours, mine, theirs - we weren’t good enough for Father, so you turned to something else. Something _ lesser _ . Well my king, Gabriel, _ my _ king, is so much more than they will ever be. Than _ you _ will ever be. The Morning Star shall rain down vengeance on this world the likes of which Heaven as _ never _ seen before. The Great Flood will look like a child playing in a puddle in comparison.”

A pause, as if they realized how fanatical they must sound, and they stood straighter, composing themself. “It’s a shame you can’t join us,” they continued, false cheer to their tone. “I’m sure your brother would’ve loved to see you again.”

“Lucifer is no more my brother than you are my soulbound,” Clayton said, finally finding his voice, impassive. “Perhaps once, in a different life. But neither of you hold any claim to me.”

Gadreel snarled, an animalistic sound that should not have been capable of being produced by a humanoid form. “Go back to your _ humans _, those killers you hang around. That Reverend of yours, I’m sure he’d love to hear all about this.”

Clayton’s hand twitch reflexively, as if he were about to reach for his gun.

“That’s right, _ Clayton _, I know all about the company you keep,” Gadreel sing-songed. “Perhaps I’ll pay them a visit-”

“You touch a hair on any of them, I swear-” Clayton began, taking a step forward, his anger bubbling up like water in a pot that had been over a fire too long.

“Swear to what, darling? You have nothing behind you now, except a few sad mortals who are in _ way _ over their heads. And they can’t do anything to protect you, nor you them. I’ll eviscerate them while you watch, helpless-”

On instinct, Clayton drew a pistol and fired. The bullet slammed into a tree some yards away as Gadreel’s form vanished into dark mist, their deranged laughter echoing on the wind.

Clayton dropped like a stone, coughing, clawing at his throat. He was surprised he was able to keep his composure for that long, the corruption burrowing further into his body. He gagged, hacking up something dark that looked suspiciously like the color of coagulated blood, but was a bit more solid, and just stayed there on his hands and knees for a few minutes, letting out the occasional cough or gasp of pain as _ whatever _ Gadreel had done to him eventually subsided. He dropped onto his side and rolled over onto his back, grimacing as he looked up at the canopy above him, breathing labored. He could still feel it, settled into his core as though incubating, waiting for the right moment. To what end, he was uncertain. But he knew he didn’t want to find out.

He pushed himself up into a sitting position with a groan, and eventually stood shakily, having to stoop down and pick up his damn hat again. Dusting it off and placing it on his head once more, he started the trek back to town.

It felt like an eternity before he made it back to the saloon they’d all agreed to meet up at in the morning, and sparing a glance up at the sky as he arrived, the position of the sun told him it was nearing noon.

Fuck, he was _ late _. Which meant there would be questions. And his neck was still fucking sore.

He sighed and pushed open the doors to the saloon, seeing the other four members of his group huddled around the table nearest the back, and he carefully made his way over, sitting down in the only empty chair.

“What happened to you?” Miriam’s voice sounded beside him, worry evident in her words.

Clayton raised an eyebrow at her tone. “Nothing,” he lied, as though taken aback at the thought that something would’ve happened to him. He caught the looks the others were sending his way and he folded a bit. “Why?”  
  
“Well, for starters, you’ve been gone since before the rest of us got up,” Aloysius replied easily, and then gestured to his neck and his jaw. “Your knuckles look like you got into a bit of a scrape, and you’ve got a bit of bruising all around there.”

Clayton’s eyes went wide for a split second, uninjured hand shooting up to cover his neck to the best of his abilities before he forced down the panic that had threatened to overwhelm him for a moment.

“I had a bit of thinking to do,” Clayton muttered, scratching at his jaw and wincing subtly when his nails made contact with the bruises from Gadreel’s fingers. He was debating just not giving them more detail but then locked eyes with Mason, and, remembering the conversation from last night, sighed. “AndImighthaverunintooneofthethingswe’relookingfor.” he added softly, all in one breath as he averted his gaze.

“I’m sorry, what?” Arabella asked. “Didn’t quite catch that.”

“And I… might have run into one of the things we’re looking for.” Clayton repeated, rubbing the back of his neck now, looking down at the table and ignoring the twinge of pain as he pressed against the bruises and recently unbroken bone in his neck.

“_ You ran into- _” Arabella began loudly, and Miriam clapped a hand over her mouth to silence her. She removed her hand and Arabella tried again, quieter this time; “You ran into one of the- the-”

“Fallen angels, yes,” Clayton muttered, lifting his eyes. He didn’t dare look at Mason. “Gadreel, I think. Let me live, surprisingly. I think getting shot at startled them- it. Startled_ it _ a bit.”

“You shot a fallen angel?” Aloysius asked, incredulous. “How did it react?”

“Faded into mist to avoid the bullet, but also let me go,” Clayton replied. “I wouldn’t count on that working twice, though. It seemed like it was… toying with me.”

The group nodded as one, pensive.

“Well, the best place to start would be wherever it found you,” Mason pointed out. “It might be best if we split up to cover more ground, though. You and I will go there, the three of you can get started on seeing where the others ran off to.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Aloysius said, standing abruptly. “Let’s get to work.”

—-

“So you had a run-in with a fallen angel and it just… happened to let you live?”

Clayton suppressed a groan. At least Mason had waited to start the interrogation until after the others were far out of earshot.

“What can I say,” Clayton said, a somewhat forced playfulness to his voice. “I’m a lucky guy.”

“Funny choice of words coming from a guy known as The Coffin,” Mason deadpanned. “You care to tell me what’s really going on?”  
  
Clayton side-eyed him. “Look,” he said, turning to face the Reverend. “I dunno what to tell you. I ran into Gadreel, they tossed me around a bit then let me go when I shot at them. That’s all there is to it.”  
  
Mason quirked an eyebrow. “You’re very insistent on calling it “they.” What, does the idea of reducing it to an object - a monster, really - make you uncomfortable?” he asked, tone accusatory.

Clayton threw up his hands in anger and defeat. “_ Yes _, Reverend, you got me, I’m secretly sympathetic to the plight of fallen angels, despite the fact that they have committed some of the most awful atrocities. Props to you for figuring it out.” he snapped, irritated. If he were being honest, yes, calling Gadreel - as horrible as they were - “it” made him very uncomfortable. Calling someone “it” was de-personifying them. And at that point, it became too easy to make the distinction between monster and not. That whole “them versus us” mentality.

Anyone could be a monster. Humanity, as well as Heaven and Hell, would do well to remember that.

Mason sighed. “I apologize,” he muttered. “You just… you sound a lot like someone I used to know. And they didn’t fare all too well.”

_ He’d said his sister was the first person he’d killed. Perhaps there were more? A Hunter like me, but… mortal? Odd. _

Clayton nodded briskly. “Well, I’ll just have to hope that I fare better,” he said evenly, and pressed onward deeper into the forest.

It was easy enough to retrace his steps to the space where he’d seen Gadreel, noticing the tree with the bullet in it first and looking over to see the one he’d punched, flecks of blood still clinging to the rough bark.

“It was here,” he announced, leaning up against a tree and letting Mason look around the scene himself.

Mason was facing away from him and bent down, peering at something on the ground, and nudged it with his shoe. For a moment Clayton was distracted from staring at his ass, trying to figure out what the hell the man was looking at.

_ Oh yeah, that… whatever it was I coughed up. Lovely. _

He straightened, muttered something to himself that Clayton couldn’t quite hear, and pulled out his shotgun, rounding on him.

“_ Woahwoahwoah _, Mason watch where you’re fuckin’ pointing that thing!” Clayton shouted, holding his hands up in surrender, hoping to placate him. “Only point it at what you wanna shoot, remember?”

Mason aimed right at the center of Clayton’s torso. “Trust me,” he growled. “I know exactly what I wanna shoot, _ fuckin' Fallen bastard. _”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)))
> 
> feel free to yell at me, i Thrive on pain


	4. Count Your Blessings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! y'all. y'all i am,,, my heart is So Full, i appreciate y'all so much
> 
> have another chapter, which i cranked out (mostly) after work, and Not At All while i was on the clock, i don't know what you're talking about-
> 
> just movin' right along, i guess lmao

At the words, Clayton's blood ran cold.

_ Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck how did he know? How did he find out? Sure, maybe I haven't been the most subtle but there's nothing to incriminate me with such certainty- _

_ ...Unless he's bluffing? A test? _

"Mason- Mason, listen to me," he said, voice gentle, cautious, panicky. "I am _ not _ one of those things. I'm not like-"

He yelped and jumped back as Mason angled the shotgun down slightly and shot the ground in front of him.

_ Nope, nopenopenope not a test- _

"Just let me explain," Clayton pleaded, fear in his eyes. "Please-"

"You have ten seconds. Start talking."

"Ten seconds?!" he shouted. "That's not enough time!"

Mason cocked the shotgun again. "One."

_ If I wasn't on the wrong end of things, this would be _ ** _very_ ** _ hot- _

"Yes! Yes you're right, I'm a fallen angel, but I'm not like the others! I didn't fall with Lucifer, this is recent for me, I made a stupid decision and protected someone I shouldn't have and-and-and I was in _ love _ Mason, what was I _ supposed _to do?!"

Something about this felt eerily familiar.

The words tumbled forth like a waterfall, volume increasing in relation to his panic as time went on.

It was passed the ten second mark, the two staring at each other. Mason leveled the shotgun at him again.

"_ Mason- _"

"You can heal," the Reverend said plainly, voice flat, unamused, and fired.

The buckshot slammed into Clayton like a train, knocking him flat onto his back.

_ What. The _ ** _fuck_ ** _ . _

A ragged cough ripped through him and the pain hit him after. He felt like he was drowning, choking on air and blood as he tried to breathe. It felt like an eternity.

Something was wrong. It was taking too long. He should've been healing by now, should've-

And suddenly the familiar warmth flooded through him, pain rocketing through him once again as each individual pellet was forcibly ejected from his body, rolling off of him and scattering among the forest floor.

He laid there when it was done, his entire torso aching, eyes closed, trying to steady his breathing.

_He shot me. That bastard actually fuckin' _**_shot_** **_me_**_._

He lifted his head ever so slightly to peer down at his chest and groaned at the sight of his mangled shirt, closing his eyes again and dropping his head back onto the ground with a painful _ thud _.

_ And he fucked up my shirt. _

"So," Mason said casually, loading two more cartridges into the shotgun before snapping it closed, holding it at the ready at his side. "Care to tell me who the fuck you are?"

Clayton forced himself to sit up, ignoring the burning in his stomach, and fixed Mason with a glare.

"Bite me," he snapped.

"Got plenty more where that came from, darlin'. You got the juice, I got the shots," the Reverend replied smoothly, his tone darkening. "So don't make me ask again."

Clayton sat there a moment.

"Gabriel," he said finally.

"Bullshit," was the immediate response. "Gabriel didn't Fall."

"Nothin' I've said to you has been a lie," Clayton fired back. "Why the fuck would I start now?"

Technically, he was right - he hadn't lied, just stretched the truth and avoided saying certain things about himself. But avoidance wasn't _ really _ lying.

A tense moment passed.

"Fine," the Reverend grumbled. "Say I believe you. Why would an Archangel like Gabriel Fall?"

"I told you before you fuckin' _ shot _ me," Clayton snapped, irritated. "I protected someone I shouldn't have, because I broke the _ fuckin' _ rules and fell in love. Satisfied?"

"No. No, I'm not. Who was it? Who did you-"

"Fuckin'- can you shut your damn mouth for five seconds?" Clayton muttered. "I fell in love with my soulbound, Gadreel. They let Lucifer into the Garden, like I said before. I found out later and didn't report it. Because I loved them."

_ If you love me, Gabriel, you won't tell a soul what you know. You'll forget all about it, _ they had said.

_ That was the idea, _ he'd replied.

_ Or at least… I _ ** _thought_ ** _ I loved them. _

"And then someone else found out what Gadreel had done, and they were cast out anyway. And about twenty years ago, it came out that I had known about it. And so I Fell." _ I ran. _

"We didn't part on good terms, and the only reason I survived meeting with them here is because I'm still an angel and more durable than humans, plus I have just enough _ juice _ to be able to heal quickly enough to keep myself from getting killed about a dozen more times. Then it's gone. Dried up. Forever. So I would really fuckin' _ appreciate it _ if you didn't shoot me. _ Again. _"

Once he was finished, he settled his gaze on Mason. The Reverend was chewing on his bottom lip, seeming to be mulling over his options.

Clayton heaved himself to his feet, looking down at his ruined shirt and sighing.

"You make _ one _ wrong move, you give me one reason to doubt you-" Mason started, and was cut off.

"You'll shoot me again, yeah, I get it," Clayton muttered, removing his duster and unbuttoning his shirt. "Give me your fuckin' shirt."

"What-"

"Look, I can't go back into town with this thing all shot to hell. So just give me one of your fuckin' shirts, I know you're wearing layers. All you fuckin' priests do." He looked at Mason expectantly.

"Not a priest," Mason replied snarkily, but proceeded to do as Clayton commanded anyway.

Which was _ not _ hot. At all. Nope.

Jesus Christ, he was fawning over a guy that had just fuckin' _ shot him. _ There had to be something wrong with him.

He snatched the shirt from Mason when it was offered to him and he turned around, back facing the man as he put it on so he could fiddle with the stupid buttons in peace. The shirt was massive on him.

A few seconds of silence passed.

"What happened to your wings?" The question was quiet, barely loud enough for Clayton to hear it.

He glanced over his shoulder before returning to the task at hand - these _ stupid fuckin' buttons that he was apparently incapable of dealing with in a timely manner _ . He wasn't sure if the holes were too small or if the buttons themselves were too big. Didn't help that he was still shaking from being _ shot _.

_ Are these things purposefully the worst? Is that how they prevent these guys from getting laid? Just make it impossible to put this shit on or take it off, problem solved I fuckin' guess. _

"I cut 'em off," he mumbled.

"By yourself?"

"No, I asked a nice old lady on her way home from church- _ yes _by myself, dumbass."

"Big talk comin' from someone who can't manage a few buttons."

If looks could kill, the good Reverend Matthew Mason would've been dead.

Unluckily for one Clayton Sharpe, the world didn't work that way.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair - and he'd need to procure his hat again.

"Just fuckin'- get over here, let me do it," Mason snapped.

Clayton didn't move, continuing to try to do it himself. Aha, another one-

"Oh for fuck's sake-"

Suddenly Mason was in front of him, batting his hands out of the way and taking the material into his own, easily taking care of the rest of the buttons. He pulled on the shirt a bit to get it to lay better over Clayton's shoulders, fixing the collar while he was at it.

Clayton, for his part, barely breathed, cheeks flushed a deep crimson, each glancing touch like a shock of electricity.

Mason seemed to notice his predicament, if the flash of a smirk on his face was anything to go by, but was blessedly silent about it as he stepped away. Probably filing that information away for later use.

Clayton cleared his throat. "Thanks," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

A beat.

"What tipped you off?"

"You're not exactly the most fuckin subtle," Mason responded gruffly. "But that thing-" Here he jerked his head toward the thing lying on the ground. "That can only come from a fallen angel. Condensed corrupted Grace. And I doubt Gadreel would've given you a gift before leavin'."

Clayton stilled.

"They…" He couldn't even get the words out, a sharp jolt of fear running through him. He walked over and picked the thing up - it was hard, about the size of a marble, and now that he got a closer look at it, it had a brackish tinge to it and seemed to swirl within the confines of the sphere.

_ They removed my Grace. _

He let out a shaky breath, hand closing around the marble, jaw clenched. He could feel bits of his remaining Grace pushing at his flesh, leaving those bruise-like marks along his spine and hips and ribs and wherever there were bones close to the skin.

It was there, but it was weak. Weaker than before. By enough of a margin to be concerning.

_ So that was why it took so long for me to heal from the gunshot, _ he observed belatedly.

How much more did he have? Enough to save someone else? Himself? He couldn't tell. And that scared him.

Clayton was not afraid of much - but death? Well. No being is truly at ease with it, especially those who aren't supposed to be able to die.

He turned back around, looking down at the marble again. "Is there any way to get it back?"

"It's not compatible with you anymore if it was expelled," Mason replied. "I woulda thought you'd know this-"

"My job was to hunt them, not study them," Clayton retorted, words sharp as daggers. "It's not like I planned on Falling, I never had any need to learn about the mechanics of corrupted Grace."

And he could still feel it there, what had done this to him, coiled in the center of his being like a snake, dark and foreboding and _ evil _.

He needed to talk to Kalaziel. Immediately.

He pocketed the marble, tucking in the shirt as best he was able, and put on his long coat once more. He grabbed his hat off the ground - third fuckin' time today - and dusted it off yet again before affixing it atop his head. When he looked up, Mason was watching him.

"What?" he questioned.

Mason shook his head. "Nothin'. Can you track the bastard, or are we done here?"

"We're done," Clayton said after a moment. He could track Gadreel if he focused, using their soulbind. Which meant Gadreel could do the same to him. He suppressed a shudder. He'd forgotten about that - no wonder they were able to find him so easily in the middle of a fuckin' forest.

"There's someone in town that I need to talk to," he muttered as they started the trek back to the aforementioned town. "Hopefully she's still there."

"I'm not lettin' you outta my sight," Mason drawled. "So you better hope she don't mind guests."

Clayton snorted. "Oh, she absolutely does. But she also would probably trust you more than me at this point," he said, voice tinged with a dark humor. "Let's see how tough you are up against a _ real _ angel, big boy." He smirked and patted the back of Mason's shoulder before continuing on ahead of him.

He relished in the quiet spluttering he heard behind him, and it took all his self control to not look back and witness the shock firsthand.

\---

Kalaziel was once again in the same bar they had met in the day before. This time it was Clayton who approached her, sitting down at her table uninvited.

"We have a problem," he said simply, looking her over.

Her eyes slid over to Mason, looking him over intently, then back to Clayton, and a brow quirked up in curiosity.

"I'd say so," she said. "You have a shadow."

"So I've noticed," Clayton glanced back at Mason, then returned his gaze to Kalaziel. "But no, I'm talkin' 'bout something else. Relatin' to… you know." He made some sort of vague gesture with a hand that he hoped she would interpret as _ angelic issues _.

She, much to his chagrin, did not.

"No, actually, I don't know," she replied.

Clayton sighed, rolling his eyes and casting a cursory glance around the slowly-filling room.

"How about we take this elsewhere," he suggested, a commanding edge to his voice that killed any argument that she was preparing to use against him, and he noted the slight shiver that passed through her at the tone.

Fallen or not, he was still an Archangel.

He thought he saw the same happen with Mason, but wrote it off as just his imagination playing tricks as it was prone to do.

They stood as one, and she led them up to the room she was staying in, closing the door behind them as they entered.

"First of all, why the fuck is he here?" she asked, jerking her head in Mason's direction.

"Hunter," was all Clayton said in explanation, then launched into telling her everything that they'd found out about the fallen angels being summoned, as well as touching on his run-in with Gadreel - though he left out the corrupted Grace part.

He didn't need to feel more inadequate.

After he finished, there was a long, _ long _ stretch of silence as Kalaziel digested his words.

Her eyes darted over to Mason for just a moment - he'd been leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest, listening intently the whole time - before she rested her gaze on Clayton.

"Gabriel," she said, slowly, deliberately. "This is- This is _ way _ beyond my pay grade. I'm just a Power. We'd need Seraphim, or- or an Archangel-"

"I _ am _ an Archangel," Clayton interrupted

"All offense intended, a _ Fallen _ one," she reminded him.

He scoffed. As if he needed reminding.

Mason said something to himself before adding, louder, "Why not just get one of the other Archangels to handle this?"

Kalaziel opened her mouth to say something, and Clayton jumped to speak over her.

"Because they'd end up razing the whole fuckin' area if this gets brought to the wrong one," he replied, sending a scathing glare Kalaziel's way, as if daring her to oppose him.

He wasn't wrong. But either way, no matter which one was tasked with accompanying a hunting party, they'd sense him, too. They'd descend upon him with all the wrath of Heaven.

And that was one confrontation he definitely would _ not _ survive.

No Fallen could stand against the greatest warriors of the Lord.

As it stood, even if he went up against a Dominion he wouldn't make it out alive. A Seraph, even one who _ wasn't _ an Archangel? They'd burn him to ash.

"What about those other things then? A- a Seraph?" Mason suggested.

Kalaziel and Clayton shared a look.

And she grinned.

"_ No _," he said, the word coming out as almost a whine.

She turned back to Mason. "I have one in mind," she said easily, and glanced over at Clayton, directing her next words toward him. "No matter how much you hate her, you know she'd never give you up, consequences be damned."

Clayton groaned, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine," he muttered, and threw his hands up in acceptance of defeat. "_ Fine _, tell her. We'll see if she even wants to help."

Not even five seconds passed before he felt the subtle shift in air pressure as a Seraph entered the space.

"_ Gabriel?! _"

Clayton yelped as he was embraced from behind, lifted up off his feet in a hug.

"Karael, please put me down," he said in as calm of a voice as he could manage.

She put him down, and he glared daggers at Kalaziel, who was snickering behind her hand.

He turned to look up at Karael, plastering a fake smile on his face.

She was nearly as tall as Mason and built like a fuckin' tank, light brown skin crisscrossed with scars, dressed in an outfit similar to Kalaziel's, dark red sleeves stretched taut over muscular arms. Her black hair was cut short, golden eyes like that of a wolf's glinting with a predatory light as she grinned.

"So Kalaziel tells me we have a rodent problem."

\---

Clayton sat on one of the pews in the church, hands folded in his lap. He could feel a subtle burning throughout his being, a slight ache burrowing into his very bones. He tried not to think too much about how his reaction to hallowed ground had gotten worse since the meeting with Gadreel, since they'd done…whatever they'd done to him.

He stared down at his boots. The others were off somewhere talking to Karael. They'd… determined it was best that he stay out of the conversation, and so he'd been put here in the sight of the cross - safe from the Fallen who would no doubt attack if he were alone elsewhere.

He glanced up at the crucifix, feeling not unlike a scolded child under the gaze of the Father.

"I want to believe that there's a reason for this," he said quietly, the words pouring out unbidden. "That this has some… some part in whatever grand design You've fashioned."

He lapsed into silence, looking down at his hands.

"But how dare You," he growled, voice rising. "How dare You give me everything, only for it to be ripped away. How _ dare _ You let me fall, and suffer at their hands, and _ Fall _ . If You _ knew _ , if You stood by, if You gave form and thought and _ life _ to a creation You would then destroy completely… What must that say about You, about those You supposedly made in Your image?"

A pause.

"A sick bastard with a magnifying glass, laughing as the ants as we burn."

He let out a breath, pressing shaky, scarred palms to his eyes.

"Careful, He might hear you."

Clayton started at the sound of Mason's voice, head snapping up to find the source.

"He never has before," he quipped, looking back to the floor. "Why would He now?"

Mason slid into the pew beside him, and he could feel warm brown eyes boring into him.

He couldn't bring himself to meet the gaze.

"So… Gabriel, huh?"

"Please don't call me that," Clayton whispered, a pleading urgency to his tone that he hadn't meant to let out.

Something in the atmosphere shifted.

He cleared his throat and spoke again. "I haven't been him for a long time. It doesn't feel right to pretend to be someone I'm not."

"I… understand," Mason said quietly, voice gentle, a hand coming to rest on his knee.

_ How can he sound as though he cares when I know he doesn't? Gentle words and light touches… _

_ It's not real. _

"But sometimes we need to face our past in order to move on from it, instead of simply running away," he continued. "It's the only way we can heal."

** _It's not real._ **

Clayton slowly removed the hand from his knee.

"What did Karael say to you?" he asked.

The hesitation spoke volumes.

_ Something about how I'm fragile, no doubt. Need caring for. Need help. Just… _ ** _need_ ** _ . _

“She said that you’re hurting,” Mason replied, cautious.

“I don’t need your care-”

“You need someone’s,” he said, a hint of desperation in his voice.

Clayton felt as though he was on a downward spiral, careening out of control, caught in the winds of a hurricane.

_ Quiet. _

_ Peace. _

_ Silence- _

“Do you still believe me to be a good man, Reverend?” he questioned. “After all you’ve learned the past couple days. Do you still believe I’m worth savin’? Worth forgiveness? Or did that melt away when you learned who I was? What I was? Cause when I looked into your eyes in that forest, staring down the barrel of that gun all I saw was hatred and anger and a desire for vengeance.”

“I am… imperfect,” Mason murmured. “As are the divine, as I’ve learned. I passed judgement, and I shouldn’t have. It’s not my place. Not my place to forgive, neither.”

Clayton scoffed. “Roundabout way to say no,” he grumbled.

“I do believe you’re worth saving. But what I believe doesn’t matter, Clayton,” Mason said, voice low, intimate. “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. And if you want forgiveness, the only person you can find that in-”

“Is God,” Clayton interrupted. “Yeah, I get it.”

“Is you,” Mason finished. Clayton looked over at him, surprise lighting steel blue eyes.

_ What? _

“Do the others know?” he asked after a minute, uncomfortable, changing the subject.

_ Running. Again. Always running. _

“Karael mentioned it. Didn’t go into detail, but what she said seemed to be satisfactory,” Mason replied dutifully, not pushing the subject further. “She told me she was the one who helped me banish Belial.”

Clayton hummed in acknowledgement. “And?”

“And she refused to accept my life debt,” was the reply, a weak attempt at humor to lighten the tension.

Clayton rolled his eyes. “Sounds like her. Wouldn’t know a blessing if it punched her in the face.”

“Would you?”

He stilled, glancing over at Mason.

_ I might. You’re more of a blessing than I thought you to be, even if you’re… difficult. _

He simply shrugged, doing his best to ignore the teasing light in the Reverend’s eyes, the small smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth, and the feelings each little thing gave him.

_ And I am in way over my head with you. _

“I think it’d get through to you eventually,” Mason mused. “You’re awfully stubborn, though.”

“It’s an angel thing,” Clayton said, words coming easily now. Easier than they had in a long while. “We’re hard to get through to.”  
  
“You’re tellin’ me.”

He couldn’t help the chuckle. “You haven’t seen the half of it.”  
  
“I should count my blessings.”

And as they continued conversation, the other members of the Deadwood Five slowly filtering in to join, hesitant at first, but confidence growing when they saw the two at ease with each other, Clayton thought that perhaps he should do the same.

He looked over at Aloysius, the man mid-laugh in response to whatever joke Arabella had told.

_ One. _

At Miriam and Arabella, blushing as their fingers wove together, something akin to love in their eyes as they shared a look.

_ Two, three. _

And Mason, whose hand had found Clayton’s knee again, a question of concern dancing on his tongue. Clayton smiled, placing a hand on the Reverend’s own, a silent assurance that he was okay. That for the first time in a long while, as the five joked and took time to just _ be _ despite the day’s revelations and the world crashing down around them, he was content.

_ Four. _

—-

_ Strange, how we always end up… _

_ Here. _

_ How does it feel, I wonder, to wander as a free man, with nothing to tie you down? _

_ Perhaps not even you know, unable to truly appreciate the gravity of the circumstances you find yourself in. _

_ You’re in over your head, and those burdens you bear will keep you from swimming to the surface. _

_ You can’t carry it all alone, no matter how fervently you try - you’ll lose yourself beneath the waves. _

_ Hold your breath - let your lungs burn and catch fire, choke on the smoke. _

_ How will it end, with fire or water? _

_ Pick your poison. _

_ Let's play a game. _


	5. A Mockery Of That Which Once Was

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a slightly shorter chapter this time, bois

_ Gadreel wasn't a threat, _ he'd told them.  _ Not like the others. Get the big players off the field first, then we can handle them. _

How he wished he hadn't set the others off that course of action.

Clayton sat on his bed, rubbing at his eyes in the dark, the only light in the room coming from the moon outside, filtering in through the window.

He hadn't had a nightmare like that in a long time - not that he remembered, at least.

_ Hands grasping, nails like daggers pressing into skin, pulling down, down, the heat rising, flames licking, searing, charring,  _ ** _burning_ ** _ - _

He shook his head to clear it, rolling his shoulders in a feeble attempt to rid his body of the tension that had settled in it like a ball of lead.

He felt so…  _ weak. _ It was a state of being he'd never truly experienced before, discomfort clawing at his mind.

He hated it.

He stood, gathering his things, and slipped out of the room. He made his way through the second floor, pausing and pressing his ear to each one of his companion's doors. Just… checking up on them. One could never be too careful.

Reaching Mason's room, he reached up to knock on the door but stopped, hesitating.

He didn't even know what time it was, just that it was night. And if they were going after Wormwood in the morning as they planned, they'd all need all the rest they could get.

His hand dropped back to his side and he stood there for a minute. Two. Five. Then he turned on a dime and walked away, heading down the stairs and through the sleepy town to the church.

It was eerily silent, a stabbing pain like a knife twisting into his gut as he entered the darkened space, the moon still providing the only light.

Clayton found himself sitting in that same pew from the day before, leaning forward on the edge of the seat, hands clasped in front of him propped up on the back to the pew before him.

_ Why am I here? _

He knew, but didn't want to admit it to himself.

A brief rustling of feathers caught his attention, and his body tensed as the air seemed to be electrified, thrumming with power.

This was no mere Seraph.

"Never thought I'd see you enter the house of God twice in one day," a familiar deep baritone voice spoke, warm and inviting and not at all judgemental or accusatory as Clayton had feared.

"Have you been watching me, Raphael?" the words left him unbidden, dropping off his tongue of their own accord.

"You already know the answer to that question, Brother," was the calm, almost soothing reply.

"So you saw-"

"I bore witness to your childish tantrum, yes."

_ Perfect. There's the judgement I was waiting for. _

"Not what I was going to ask," Clayton muttered, dropping his head.

A gentle hand pressed into his shoulder, a warmth spreading through him from the contact.

"There is a darkness within you, Gabriel," Raphael observed, tone as gentle as his touch, words sweet as honey drifting into Clayton's ears. "Something that not even I can heal. It's been there since the day you were created, and I… I fear for you. I fear that we may lose you, that the Fall was simply your first step toward the inevitable."

"Then why not end it here?" Clayton asked, turning his head just enough to see Rapael in his peripheral. "And don't give me that bullshit about being a healer, I've seen you take out just as many Fallen as Michael."

He would've sworn he saw the tiniest of smiles playing on Raphael's lips.

"It's your story to write, Messenger, not mine," was the reply. "So tell me, what comes next?"

"I don't know," Clayton murmured.

"Sure you do," Raphael prodded. "You just don't want to open yourself to anymore pain."

_ Perhaps he's right. _

"We find Wormwood, and we banish him. And I keep the others safe."

This time, Clayton was  _ sure _ the other angel smiled.

"You're learning."

"Fuck off," he grumbled, though there was no bite to his words.

A quiet chuckle followed the comment, and the hand was removed from his shoulder.

"Be careful, Brother," Raphael said, sobering. "I don't wish to lose another."

And he was gone, the energy in the church fizzling until it was just a normal dark, abandoned building once more.

Clayton could still feel the warmth flooding through him, the remnants of Raphael's divine healing light, power coursing through his veins.

_ That sneaky son of a bitch. _

Sharing of Grace was strictly prohibited, because generally it was a tricky process - but not for the Archangel of healing, evidently. And yet Raphael had now done it three separate times for him.

He smiled to himself.

He would've asked for Raphael's help take down the summoned Fallen, but knew that the Archangel had a reputation to uphold as well as an ungodly number of things on his plate already.

Giving Clayton his strength back, albeit temporarily…

That alone was more than he could've hoped for.

He remained in the church for a short while longer before making his way back to his room. He paused once again when he reached Mason’s door, hesitating, but after some internal debate continued onward.

He opened the door to his room and froze in the doorway, seeing Mason sitting on his bed. His head snapped up as Clayton entered, and a look of relief washed over his features.

“I thought…” he began, and stalled mid-sentence, changing his words to a simple “I was worried. Where did you go?”

“The church,” Clayton replied, removing his coat and sitting on the edge of the bed next to Mason, a good foot or so away. He hesitated a moment, Raphael’s words echoing in his head.  _ You just don’t want to open yourself to anymore pain. _

_ Maybe it’s time I try. _

“I… I have nightmares. Of the Fall. And I needed air. Needed to think about something other than that,” he said, voice low.

A moment of quiet.

“What… How did it happen?” Mason asked trepidatiously, as though wanting to know but afraid to ask. “The Fall. Not why, how.”

_ A hand circled around Gabriel’s throat, pressing harshly against his windpipe. His hands flew up to claw at his neck, at the thing preventing him from breathing, eyes wide in surprise and fear. _

_ “Michael,” he begged, voice hoarse. “Please, I’m sorry. I was in  _ ** _love_ ** _ , Michael, what was I  _ ** _supposed_ ** _ to do?” _

_ “You were supposed to put your duties first,” the Archangel snarled, all poison and disappointment and  _ ** _rage_ ** _ . “You know the rules, Gabriel. And you broke them. And you will be punished accordingly.” _

_ He was thrown to the ground, coughing and choking on the air that suddenly flooded into his lungs, the heat of the white-hot fire licking along the Sword making his skin bubble and blister. _

_ “I take no joy in casting you out, Brother,” Michael said, voice even, deathly calm as he dragged the Sword along Gabriel’s side, from hip to arm, branding him a traitor, unfazed by the piercing screams the action tore from his mouth. “Take comfort in knowing that in the end I will be the one to draw your last breath from your lungs.” _

“Painfully,” Clayton murmured, voice distant. “Michael took his Sword and branded me with it. Slit my throat, severing my connection to Grace. The Voiceless Messenger, he’d called me. My… personalized punishment for keeping silent on my knowledge of Gadreel’s actions.”

His throat still burned when he spoke too much. His limit, he’d learned, varied day by day.

“He sounds… intense,” Mason replied lamely. He clearly hadn’t been anticipating what Clayton said.

“Very,” Clayton huffed.

He glanced over to see Mason closer than when he’d sat down. He wasn’t sure which of them had moved.

“I’m sorry,” Mason whispered. “For… for everything. For how I’ve treated you, for what you’ve been through. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Didn’t I?” was the response. “In Heaven, I disobeyed. And here, I hid the truth. Kept you all in the dark.”

“You had reason to.”

“The reason wasn’t good enough,” Clayton fired back, exasperated. Warm brown eyes met cold blue, and he looked away quickly, running a hand through his hair.  _ Stare too long at the sun and you’ll go blind. _ “I- I betrayed your trust. And put all of you in danger by dragging you into this.”

“We can handle ourselves, Clayton-”

“Not against fallen angels you can’t, and it’s foolish to believe we even stand a chance. Even with Kalaziel, even with Karael. What we’re trying to do here… it’s suicide.”

A beat. “Then I’m a fool. Because I believe in us. In  _ you _ . I believe that we’ll make it out alive, that you’ll keep us safe.”

Clayton swallowed hard around the lump in his throat.

“And if we don’t?” He didn’t want to ask the question, but it came out anyway.  _ He believes in me. What if I let him down? _

“Then that’s one hell of a way to go.”

A warmth, familiar and foreign all at once, washed over him. Comforting, empowering. Terrifying.

_ Oh no. _ He knew that feeling. Knew what it meant.

And he knew there was no way in hell Mason felt the same. Not after all the shit they’d been through in the past few days alone.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah it is.”

Mason tossed him a smile that sent heat scattering through him, heart skipping a beat, and stood. “Get some rest, Sharpe. Some proper rest. We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

Clayton nodded mutely, and just watched him go. With the  _ click _ of the door latching, he fell back onto the bed, throwing an arm over his face.

_ Fuck. _

This was not at all what he wanted.

He stayed like that for an undetermined amount of time before standing, shoving a chair up under the handle, and threw himself into bed.

Sleep did not come easily.

\---

“What do you mean,  _ bait _ ?” Arabella whisper-shouted at Karael. If she wasn’t so angry, Clayton might’ve found the scene humorous. As it was, her fury was quite frankly a bit frightening.

Karael looked down at Arabella, unamused. “Just what I said,” she deadpanned. “Wormwood, he’s… smart. And he won’t show himself unless he’s drawn out.”   
  
“Bella, please,” Miriam said gently, placing a hand on her arm. “I can handle this.” She turned her attention back toward Karael, and they began discussing their plan to lure out the fallen angel of disease.

Clayton was only half paying attention, gaze resting on each of the group in turn, and as something clicked in his mind a look of suspicion crossed his face for a moment before he schooled his features.

Five Fallen. Five of them, each with their own flaws and strengths, each with something to prove.

His eyes lingered on Miriam. Despite everything they’d been through, he still knew precious little about her.

Fate was not something he gave much thought to, but something was whispering to him, telling he ought to give it more consideration.

He shut that voice out. Surely he was just making connections where there were none.

“Ga- Clayton,” Karael called, correcting herself halfway through. She was trying, at the very least. “You’ll be her backup in case something goes wrong.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” he said reflexively, standing a little straighter as he did so.

It felt good to have orders to follow again, to give control to someone else for once, and he felt himself relaxing ever so slightly despite the deep brown eyes burning into him.

Karael nodded to herself and turned back to Miriam. “You remember the incantation and how to draw the circle?”

Miriam nodded in confirmation.

“Good. And remember, trust nothing that he says. Demons… demons always lie.”

\---

Miriam took in a deep breath, standing back to admire her handiwork, dusting her hands of the chalk she’d used to construct the circle. Beneath her calm composure she was afraid - even with Clayton as backup, she was still facing off against a fallen angel alone.

_ Just buy enough time for me to seal him into the circle, _ Karael had said.  _ Be prepared for a fight afterward. _

A few uttered words, and the air in the abandoned cabin grew heavy. The all too familiar stench of sickness and death permeated the room, and a being looking for all the world like a dead man materialized before her.

“Two summonings in so short a time,” Wormwood mused, bits of ashen skin sloughing off his jaw as he spoke. “Truly, humanity has learned how to harness their power. Tell me, darling, what is it you desire?”

He stalked closer to her, stopping just within the confines of the circle, and she was surprised that she held her ground.

He looked her over, a slow grin spreading over his sickly features. “You seem uncomfortable,” he observed, almost sounding as though he pitied her. “How about a form more… familiar?”

And she watched as his features shifted into those of her dead husband, a state of decay taking hold of his form, a heavy chunk of his skull missing from when she’d blown his brains out with her rifle.

No, it wasn’t him she’d shot. She had to remember that. Wormwood was simply taking the form of the man she’d loved, the man who’d tried to kill her.

“Now that we’re comfortable,” Wormwood purred.  _ Jesus Christ he even has his voice- _ “What is it you want, Miriam Landisman? I’m sure you didn’t trap me here for the fun of it.”

A pause, and something seemed to click in his mind, his face contorting into a sneer. “Oh, you  _ bitch _ ,” he snarled. “What, were my undead not enough for you? You and your  _ friends _ , you wanted a taste of their creator’s power? How  _ quaint _ .”

He grinned. There were too many teeth.

He spoke in a language that grated on her ears, leaving them ringing, and the grin widened past what should’ve been possible, skin splitting at the corners of his mouth.

The floor quaked and began to split beneath her feet just as his mouth had, and she had to jump pack to get out of the way as sulphurous steam was expelled from the earth. The circle containing him remained blessedly intact, which only seemed to anger him further. She distantly understood that was Karael’s doing.

“I hope your friends won’t be missed,” he hissed, slamming his hands against the air as though there was an invisible wall between them, that terrifying grin never leaving his face as he stared at her.

As if on cue, there was a shout and a series of gunshots from outside.

_ Clayton _ .

Miriam made for the door, and it slammed in her face.

“Clayton!” she cried, frantically trying to turn the handle. The door didn’t budge.

The sound of Wormwood’s deranged laughter echoed through the confined space.

And the gunshots continued.


	6. A Fleeting Spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continuing down this rabbit hole-

Clayton slammed into the ground with an audible, painful _ thud _, frantically reloading his pistols from behind what little cover he could find. He hadn't expected Wormwood to be able to summon undead from within the fuckin' containment circle.

A bullet blasted into the tree he was hiding behind, scattering debris into the air, and he immediately popped his head out to return fire.

One of the undead dropped like a stone in water as he nailed it right between the eyes. His brief second of celebration was cut short by a scorching pain on his bicep and he dove back behind the tree, cursing loudly as he slapped a hand over the wound. A pained sound left him as he removed the pressure, watching as blood oozed from it.

He didn't bother trying to heal it. He wasn't gonna waste time or precious Grace on such a small injury.

The echoing booms of two shotgun blasts in quick succession bounced off the trees, and he instinctively ducked before peering around to find the source.

His eyes found Mason, already cocking the gun once more, and he let out a sigh of relief.

Thank _ fuck. _

A rustling to his side caught his attention and he automatically pointed a pistol in the direction of the sound before registering the figure before him as Aloysius.

"We gotta get in there," Clayton said urgently, jerking his head toward the cabin.

"Way ahead of you," Aloysius replied. "Bella and Karael are already trying to get in there to deal with that bastard as we speak. We just gotta hold these undead fucks off for as long as it takes for them to get rid of him."

Clayton nodded. "Right," he muttered. "Close in, then. Protect the entrance."

Aloysius nodded and vanished into the trees once more, rifle at the ready.

Clayton glanced up to the sky, counting down, building up the courage to switch cover, and darted closer to the cabin, several bullets whizzing past him, just barely missing.

He slid down behind a wood pile positioned in front of the building, quite literally bumping into Mason.

Butterflies fluttered in his stomach at the contact, and he squashed the feeling down.

"Fancy seein' you here," he bit out, unable to resist as he popped out from behind cover to take out another one, his second shot going wide. Something slammed into his shoulder - the same _ fucking _ arm - tearing into it. He bit back a yelp, biting his tongue to keep quiet. He didn't need Mason or anyone else worrying about him. He dropped back down just as another bullet zipped past, mere inches above his head.

"Couldn't let you have all the fun," Mason replied, tone surprisingly light despite the gravity of the situation.

Clayton rolled his eyes at that. At least the man hadn't seemed to notice the fact that he'd been shot. Twice.

The firefight lasted all of ten minutes before all the undead flared with an internal fire and crumbled to ash, vanishing with their summoner. The shootout felt as if it had gone on for much longer, Clayton's body thrumming with energy and adrenaline.

He leaned his back against the wood pile, wincing as the pain from the two wounds slowly resurfaced now that he wasn't focused on not getting shot _ again. _

Mason held out a hand to help him up and he took it like an idiot, the strain on the muscle eliciting a hiss of pain.

"You're hurt," Mason observed, concern touching his words.

"Just a scratch," Clayton lied, barely looking at him, making his way toward the others. "I'll be fine."

In all honesty, he wasn't sure how bad of an injury either one was - he hadn't really had the time to check before when he was being shot at, and he wasn't gonna do so with Mason's eyes on him.

His gaze rested on Miriam and Arabella, stopping short when he caught sight of them, the obvious tear tracks on Miriam's face, the way Arabella was holding her, a reversal of roles from when Arabella had to kill her own sister. Even Aloysius kept his distance, giving the two women a moment to themselves.

He looked over to Karael instead, the Seraph a short distance away, appearing frazzled but oddly satisfied.

He walked over, standing beside her, certain the image was almost comical to an observer given the stark contrast between the two, she being much larger than him both in height and bulk.

"Will she be alright?" Clayton asked, looking at the angel out of the corner of his eye.

"In time," was the quiet reply, golden eyes still fixed on the two women. "She's lucky to have so many who care for her." Karael looked down at him then, studying him for a moment. "As are you."

"Yeah," Clayton hummed in agreement, gaze wandering to come to rest on Mason.

"You have a fondness for him, don't you?" He heard rather than saw her smile, infecting her words as she spoke.

He shook himself out of his reverie and looked back to her. "Something neither of us want," he muttered.

"You don't see how he looks at you when your back is turned," Karael said carefully. He frowned at that.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Just… leave yourself open to whatever may come," she advised. "You never know what good may find itself in your grasp."

Clayton huffed, unconvinced. "Right," he muttered, an attempt to placate her.

She blessedly dropped the subject.

"Well, we've taken one down. Four more to go," she mused. "Who's next on the list?"

Clayton ran through the names in his head. How badly he wanted to say Gadreel, but there were more pressing problems.

"Bernael," he said eventually, hoping Karael didn't read too much into his hesitance, didn't sense his reluctance to say the name. "Bernael's next."

\---

Clayton steeled himself, taking a deep breath, and knocked on the door before him. He was half tempted to leave anyway, just run away like always.

There was no immediate answer, and he'd just stepped back, ready to turn and walk away, when the door opened.

Miriam poked her head out, visibly relaxing when she saw who was at the door, though a hint of confusion lingered on her features.

“Clayton,” she greeted, opening the door wider, stepping out of the way. “Come in.”

He tipped his hat to her in thanks and cautiously entered the room, glancing about it. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he began, noting the book on the sheets and the light robe she wore. She must’ve been reading before bed. His gaze settled on her once more. “I just… wanted to see how you were doing.”

Miriam sighed. “You didn’t need to check up on me, Mister Sharpe,” she said, closing the door behind him. She sounded tired. “I’m just fine.”

“I might not have needed to, but I wanted to,” he replied easily. “Facin' off against a demon would be enough to scare anybody, no matter how put-together they were. And I, uh.” He paused. _ Fuck it. _ “I worried. ‘Bout you.”

“Careful, Clayton,” Miriam warned, seeming to be only half-joking. “Keep talking like that and people might think you’re going soft.”

Clayton chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I am,” he muttered. “But I’m bein’ genuine, Miriam. How are you, really?”

Another sigh. “Shaken,” she admitted. “He took the form of my husband. My… my dead husband.”

_ Oh. _ “I’m sorry.” There wasn’t much else he could say.

“Nothing you need to apologize for,” she said softly. “The business in Deadwood, with the dead rising again, it was... familiar. Because I’d dealt with it before."

Clayton cocked an eyebrow, looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue. He hadn't been anticipating that.

She looked down. "My… husband. He'd never been the gentle sort. And one night after he'd been drinkin', he… he got too rough. Hurt me. And so I tried to leave. He wouldn't let me. And I…" Her voice got real quiet. "I shot 'im. And I dug his grave behind the house and I buried him and after a week in the ground, he... he came back."

A beat. "So I burned him. He didn't come back after that."

A deep inhale, and she looked back up at Clayton, hesitant, as though she would see judgement in his eyes.

He knew she wouldn't.

"And then I came to Deadwood," she said, very matter of fact. "Thought it'd be a fresh start and I could put everythin' behind me. The world wasn't so kind as to let me run and hide."

"We've all got our demons, Miriam," Clayton said gently.

"Yes, and I met mine tonight, in the flesh," she replied, something like anger in her voice. Or perhaps some kind of grief.

He winced. "You didn't have to go in there," he said quietly. "I could've-"

"You and I both know that it had to be me," she countered. "I had to be the one to face him, just like you have to be the one to face Gadreel. Just like you said Mister Sharpe, we all have our demons. And the only one who can face them is ourselves."

They lapsed into silence.

"I should let you get back to readin'," Clayton muttered, backing toward the door. "Sorry for bothering you, Miriam. I'm glad you're doin' alright."

He turned, hand on the doorknob, and stopped as she spoke again.

"Thank you, Clayton," she murmured. "Get some rest."

He stared at the door for a second before nodding brusquely and exiting the room, closing the door behind him.

He arrived at his door at the same time Mason did, raising an eyebrow questioningly. "You get lost, Reverend?" he asked, teasing.

The slightest bit of red dusted Mason's cheeks, a sight that had no right to be as… as _ cute _ as Clayton found it to be.

"I, uh," Mason started, cleared his throat, and tried again, holding up what looked to be gauze, a needle and thread, and a bottle of whiskey. "I was just comin' by to help patch up your arm."

_ Oh yeah. That. _

The constant throbbing had been easy enough to ignore, the limited mobility of his shoulder proving to be nothing more than a nuisance at the moment. It was nothing compared to the pain of the Fall.

"I'd… I'd appreciate that," Clayton said after a minute of consideration and pushed open his door, entering the room - Mason trailing behind, quietly closing the door - and taking off his hat and duster, as well as his shirt. He hissed quietly as the final layer was removed, pulling at the skin around the wound. He'd procured a new one after the, ah, shotgun incident, and had returned Mason's.

Part of him had wanted to keep it. He had tried not to let himself think too much on why.

It looked like he'd be needing to toss this one, too, as stained as it was.

There was a sharp intake of breath. "Jesus Christ, Clayton," Mason uttered.

"Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain," Clayton muttered, tone teasing, borderline mocking.

"I think He'll let this one slide," Mason fired back, setting his supplies on the nightstand. "Why the _ fuck _ didn't you deal with this before?"

Clayton shrugged noncommittally, wincing at the pain that radiated out from the gunshot wound on his shoulder.

Mason sighed and pointed to the bed. "Sit the fuck down," he commanded.

Clayton's cheeks burned as he obeyed, trying desperately not to linger on how hot it was to be ordered around like that and what that said about him as a person.

Mason sat down next to Clayton and gently turned him so they were facing each other.

"Still in there?" he asked.

Clayton nodded, Mason cursed. "Got some uh. Got some tweezers in that drawer there," Clayton said, gesturing toward the drawer on his nightstand. "Never go anywhere without 'em. Just in case."

Mason nodded and leaned over, opening the drawer and grabbing the tweezers and the whiskey before turning back to his patient.

He handed the bottle to Clayton.

"Gonna be painful," he muttered.

Clayton opened the bottle, taking the hint, and took a drag. It burned on the way down.

One more.

"Alright, get on with it," he grumbled out after the second swig.

And sure as hell, it fucking _ hurt. _

Once the bullet had been removed, Mason got to work stitching up the wound, slow, practiced, methodical.

They sat in companionable silence for some time, Clayton occasionally taking sips of the whiskey, until he spoke.

"Seems like you've done this before," he noted. He could feel the alcohol muddying his awareness ever so slightly, loosening him up just enough.

Enough for what, he wasn't sure. But it was enough.

"Once or twice," Mason replied, dismissive. "In the war, someone was always gettin' shot. Somebody had to learn how to patch 'em up."

"You fought in the war, then?" Clayton asked, blue eyes searching the face of the man before him.

Mason's hands stilled for just a moment before resuming their ministrations, never removing his eyes from the task at hand.

"Yeah," he said eventually. "Did a lot of things during that time that I'm not proud of."

"And so you became a preacher for… what, atonement?" The question wasn't judgmental or insulting, simply… curious.

"Of a sort."

_ Huh. _

"We're all runnin' from something, I suppose," Clayton muttered.

"I suppose we are."

A beat. "And what're you runnin' from, Clayton?"

Clayton stiffened, and Mason stopped, finally looking up at him.

"More than I'd feel comfortable talkin' 'bout, Reverend," he said, something like a warning in his tone.

"If you ever change your mind about that, you know where I'll be," Mason said.

A moment passed, and Clayton deflated, nodding.

"Thank you."

"No need to thank me, Clay. Door's always open for you."

Clayton raised an eyebrow at the nickname as Mason ducked back down, crimson staining his cheeks.

_ He's absolutely fuckin' gorgeous. _

They lapsed into silence once more, and once Mason had finished stitching the wound and wrapping the shoulder in gauze, the Reverend sat back to admire his handiwork.

Clayton offered him the whiskey - he hadn't drank any more of it since their earlier conversation, the buzz he had going pleasant enough to dull the pain - and he took it with a grateful smile, downing some of it.

"Thanks," Clayton said, voice surprisingly gentle, lacking its usual gruffness.

Mason nodded. "Anytime. Just… try not to get shot again, will you?"

Clayton smirked. "I ain't promisin' a damn thing."

The Reverend rolled his eyes at that and made to stand, but Clayton took hold of his wrist.

_ Now or never, I guess. _

And he pulled Mason to him, brushing their lips together.

It was nothing like that first kiss in the woods that felt like ages ago but was mere days.

This was tender, and gentle, and full of the words Clayton couldn't bring himself to say.

They parted, and before he could move farther away Mason's hand was on the back of his neck pulling him back in for another round.

_ Perfection. _

That was the only word for it.

He could stay like this forever, spend an eternity in Mason's arms and be content, angels and demons be damned.

They finally parted again, breathless, resting their foreheads together.

"I should go," Mason breathed. "Before this gets any more…" He trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Intense?" Clayton supplied.

He chuckled. "Yeah. That." He shifted, his touch lingering longer on Clayton's skin than it had any right to, and he stood, a certain kind of reluctance to the movement.

He gathered his things slowly, and Clayton watched him with a small, lazy smile on his face. He finally headed for the door - _ please don't go _ \- and paused, hand on the doorknob.

"Goodnight, Clayton," he said, voice low, and opened the door.

_ Stay. _

"Goodnight, Matthew," was the soft reply.

And he was gone, leaving Clayton alone in the room once more.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt a spark of something he'd thought lost to him.

_ Hope. _

\---

_ Hope. _

_ A whispered word, a faint light in an otherwise dark room, a fleeting touch bringing with it comfort. _

_ Something intangible, scattering out like stars in a cloudless sky, tiny beacons guiding you home through the lengthening shadows, the twisting forms playing tricks on your mind. _

_ Oftentimes you're still running from those imaginary monsters, but some days you find yourself standing still. _

_ Those days are the good ones. _

_ Maybe one day you'll stop for good, let yourself finally catch your breath, but you don't see an end in sight. _

_ Mountains can be tricky like that, blocking the view of the valleys between them. _

_ Just one more uphill climb, not much further to go now. _


End file.
